Greetings from Asbury Park after dark

“5 dollars, regular, credit.”

I hand the gas attendant my card - he shakes his head disapprovingly. I only have a dollar in cash plus he doesn’t own the gas station and won’t personally incur the charge on a 5 dollar fill-up so he’ll get over it.

“What are you doing?” Dave asks.

I’m on the phone with Dave who I’ve left in the dark in regards to my whereabouts and what I’m ordering.

“I gotta go,” the attendant is motioning for me to get off the phone, “something about no cell phones.”

Click.

From a short distance, a young black female is on a midnight stroll with a portly Italian gentleman. I assume he’s Italian because he’s wearing a tracksuit; I assume she’s black because she’s black. So it’s not an assumption, she is black and that’s perfectly OK. It just needs special attention because the union of a short, stout, middle-aged Mafioso strolling alongside a 20-something year old black woman @ 12 in the morning is special. Plus it’s Asbury Park: the Flower City of the Garden State; birthplace of Bruce Springsteen’s musical inspiration; hooker haven.

The odd couple head directly at me. She waves and smiles. Her teeth are the wooden planks of the Asbury Park Boardwalk: textured, dirty and misshapen in places. I wave back because I’m friendly but quickly look away to fiddle with my iPod.

Knock knock on my window.

Her name is Kenisha I think. Or Venisha. It’s something that ends in ‘eee-sha’. I know this because she’s about to tell me. With full knowledge that whatever happens next would be written down, I anxiously drop the window and spin the scroll wheel, effectively lowering the volume (which on the iPod Classic gets fussy sometimes).

“Yes. Hello sir. My name is {something that ends in ‘eee-sha’} and I was living with my mother who is doing Crack. So I’m staying in that motel.” She points through the night; I only see trees.

side note: Although it sounds contrived, her mother - according to {something that ends in ‘eee-sha’} -  is doing Crack.

The stubby Italian gent is making small talk with the attendant and I assume this is a set-up.

“I’m not with him, don’t worry,” as she points to Pauly Walnuts in the tracksuit. “Anywaaaays (she smiles, giving me an up-close of the boardwalk), I’m not a hooker, but I’ll give you a {rhymes with toe throb} for 5 dollars.”

Why couldn’t she have started with “Greetings from Asbury Park, my name is {something that ends in ‘eee-sha’}...”? It would have helped with the title.

I open my wallet, grab the dollar and look around to see who’s watching.

“I’m really not a prostitute,” she smiles while rubbing my fingerless-glove. Her perfume invades my space. It smells of an air freshener you’d find in a Porta-John.

“{Something that ends in ‘eee-sha’}, I have a dollar. It’s why I’m using my debit card for a small fill-up. And I’m not looking for a discount, nor am I not looking for a {rhymes with toe throb} that would cost me anything because, well, I don’t pay for these things. But I want you to have this dollar.”

I make the drop-off, imagining the Asbury police snapping photos from a surveillance van just beyond the trees where the alleged motel is supposed to be.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest thang!”

XXX hot action scene: Her head breaches the invisible - but understood - barrier between the outside world and the inside of my 2011 Hyundai Accent. Boom! Hooker kiss on the cheek; I take it like a champ.

It’s only a dollar, which may or may not be supporting drugs or alcohol. But I don’t care. It takes chutzpah to approach a stranger and offer a {rhymes with toe throb}. Plus I appreciate the offer made below market value, which I’m assuming is actually a discount because I don’t know the going rate.

Dave calls back as I make my way around the rotary just outside the gas station. I finish telling my story, assuring him that I’d write it down, and he wants to know the title.

“Greetings from Asbury Park,” I answer him, “after dark.”